


clear water, breaking waves

by CountlessStars



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Fix-It, Gibson deserved better, M/M, kiiiind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 02:08:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11818995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CountlessStars/pseuds/CountlessStars
Summary: Gibson's arm gets badly tangled in some ropes and Tommywantsto leave him there. He knows he could do it and nobody would care—just like nobody would care if it wasTommy'slast breath going up in silvery bubbles. Gibson would be just another corpse never to be found.He doesn't know why he dives back.





	clear water, breaking waves

**Author's Note:**

> **Because we all know Gibson deserved better...**  
>   
> 
> Oh. My. God. It's literally 10am and I've been up all night writing this...um, _thing_. Which means that: 1. I am _dead_ and 2. I'm sorry for any formatting/spelling issues, but I've seen mashed potatoes less mushy than my brain currently lol. Also I've been fighting ao3 for the past hour, this is like my 20th attempt to post wtf.  
>  Anyway.
> 
> Title is from _Smashed to Pieces in the Still of the Night_ by Esben and the Witch. Go give it a listen if you want to, it kind of fits this, I think?
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

 

Tommy is too young to remember the first war. (He's probably too young to be fighting in this one, too. But he's seen younger boys than him out there on the beach of Dunkirk. Younger corpses.) The Great War, they used to call it, and Tommy finds it ridiculous for more than one reason. There's nothing _great_ about having sand in your boots, salt in your mouth and blood of another soldier splattered across your face. There's nothing heroic about sitting on the sand in between the sea foam that smells of fish and death. There's nothing admirable about being lucky enough to have a bomb blow up your mate instead of you. Nothing impressive about trying to survive, when it's the only thing you can do.

Surviving is much harder than it seems, Tommy comes to realise during his time on that godforsaken beach. It's messy and painful and bloody difficult. For him, at least. Because the man, boy really, who has been with him for three days now—he does it with natural ease. He's quiet like a mouse and he slips out of perilous situations like he was born to do so. He has saved Tommy's life, too—twice now—and he has not said a single word since they have met. But then again, there isn't much to talk about. Not much to do, either, just wait—for death or deliverance, whichever comes quicker.

-

They find a spot on the beach, a place that looks no different than the miles of sand stretching to infinity in every direction, and sit down. The clouds above their heads are thick and heavy. They roll around in odd patterns and Tommy dully wonders how much death is hiding between them.

Sometimes, Tommy catches the boy looking at him, but his eyes are just dark and empty, and Tommy has to look away. He stares at the sea instead, that ugly, cold, grey thing, and doesn't think about anything at all.

-

Everyone's luck runs out sooner or later and Gibson _(not Gibson)_ almost drowns in that rusty wreck of a boat.

Gibson's arm gets badly tangled in some ropes and Tommy _wants_ to leave him there. He knows he could do it and nobody would care—just like nobody would care if it was _Tommy's_ last breath going up in silvery bubbles. Gibson would be just another corpse never to be found.

He doesn't know why he dives back.

The salt burns in his eyes, blurs the world around him. By the time he untangles him, Gibson is barely moving and Tommy's own movements are slow, uncoordinated. He grips the collar of Gibson's jacket and pushes himself off the metal stairs towards where he thinks _(hopes)_ the surface is.

Alex curses as he helps Tommy drag Gibson out from the sinking boat. Gibson's body is slack, limbs floating with the waves. Tommy spits out the water and tries to think as he struggles to keep Gibson above the surface.

Alex is saying something, but the words don't reach Tommy's ears. He has arms clamped around Gibson's chest, and he thinks, distantly, that he might break his own bones with the force of his grip, if Gibson's ribs don't give way first.

Somewhere, far too close, a bomb tears into one of the ships, fills the air with the sound of metal ripping and people screaming. A wave washes over them and Tommy barely has the strength to keep them both afloat. The water feels thicker and thicker as he kicks his feet, slower with every passing second.

Tommy releases his grip.

Gibson starts coughing out water just as a boat appears out of nowhere.

-

Tommy is cold. His bones feel like chunks of ice underneath his skin and his fingers stay stiff, no matter how hard he clutches the cup of tea. The boy gave it to him just a few moments ago, his pale, smooth face tensed in an approximation of a polite smile. Tommy could ask, could offer a few words of sympathy, of understanding. But the dead boy below is no different from the bodies on the shore and in the water. And Tommy already knows that once you're dead, it hardly matters if you're dressed in a uniform or a knitted vest. So he simply nods in thanks and stays silent.

Alex is sitting on the floor across from him, his feet almost touching the dead boy's leg. Dirty water is dripping from everyone's uniforms and collects in oily puddles on the floor. It whirls around lazily as the boat sways on the waves. Some of the water soaks into the piece of cloth covering the body. Tommy looks away.

If Tommy tilts his head, he can see Gibson on the deck, slumped between two other men. His face is unnaturally pale, his eyes sullen and dark like the water he almost died in. He doesn't have a lifejacket.

Tommy feels Alex's eyes on him. He returns the gaze—Alex is frowning underneath the black smears of oil. Tommy thinks back to the moments on the sinking boat, in the burning water, and ducks his head, grips the cup a little harder and wills himself not to shiver.

-

He doesn't want to leave the boat. Everyone is standing up, leaving, but Tommy wants to stay.

He knows they're practically home. He _tells himself_ he's home. Repeats it over and over again. But somehow, curled up in that tiny boat with a dead body lying across him and dirty-faced soldiers staring into nothingness, he feels safer than he has felt for a long time and the idea of going back out there weighs him down like a ton of bricks. The ground, the sea, even the air—everything means just more danger. If not right now, then in several hours, days, weeks.

Eventually, Tommy lifts himself up, climbs the short stairs. His muscles barely cooperate. A dull pain unfolds inside him, fills up his whole body with tension and cracks him along the edges.

He almost wishes he could switch places with the dead boy. They take his body out of the boat—carefully, but not gently. Tommy notices the other boy, the one in the blood red jumper, watching. His fists are clenched at his sides, and his pale face is perfectly blank. In the night that surrounds them, he looks almost unearthly.

When they put the body down, it's no longer a person; it's only a thing.

-

Somehow, he loses sight of Alex and Gibson in the unhurried stream of nameless soldiers. He finds himself walking towards the trains, slower than the others, as he wonders if he should try to find them. Gibson is probably long gone, anyway.

A blind man gives him a blanket and he clutches it absentmindedly—it's rough and completely, unbelievably dry. Tommy has almost forgotten the feeling of dry fabric on his skin. He runs his fingers across it in a chaotic pattern, feels like he shouldn't be touching it at all, like he's desecrating it with his cold, damp fingers.

When Tommy hears the quiet _'psst'_ , he thinks he's imagining it. He doesn't even lift his head, not until he hears the sound again.

Gibson is standing there, in the narrow passage between two buildings. He's barely visible in the yellow light of the street lamp and when he takes a step back, he disappears in the shadows completely.

Tommy twists the blanket in his hands and separates himself from the moving mass of soldiers. No one even glances at him as he follows Gibson into the darkness.

Tommy's eyes take a moment to adjust. He can see Gibson leaning against the wall, his whole body tense, his head ducked low between his shoulders. He isn't looking at Tommy. Tommy stills, then takes a hesitant step forward.

"Where will you go?" he asks, even though he doesn't expect an answer. The first words he has said in hours scratch his throat, coming out rough and choked. Gibson turns his head to him. He doesn't reply.

The silence that expands between them is not even a silence at all—there's the sound of hundreds of shuffling feet just a few metres to the left, but it feels like it's coming from half a world away. Here, now, there's only Tommy and Gibson, and the empty darkness wrapping its cold fingers around them both.

Gibson takes a single step closer, turning his whole body towards Tommy.

Gibson's eyes seem black in the faint light from one of the lamps that doesn't really reach where they're standing and Tommy realises he doesn't know what colour they really are. His mind latches onto that unimportant detail and he feels lost, like he's missed something big, something very obvious about Gibson _(again)._

Gibson opens his mouth, closes it again. Tommy sees a muscle tighten in his jaw and almost hears the sound of teeth gritting together.

More silence.

Then it all happens at once, like bombs dropping on the beach. A heartbeat—Gibson is there, unmoving, just out of Tommy's reach, another heartbeat—he's pushing Tommy against the brick wall, one hand gripping his hair harshly, painfully. The toes of their boots knock together, but Tommy's feet are glued to the ground.

Tommy can't think. Not with Gibson's breath washing over his face, so much softer than the harsh seaside wind. He's frozen, even though his whole body is screaming to _move._

He wants to say something, anything. Gibson's palm still presses against his chest and he must feel Tommy's heartbeat. He must _hear it_ , too, because to Tommy's own ears, it roars louder than gunfire.

Gibson doesn't take his eyes off him, even as he inches closer, _closer._

When their lips touch, Tommy tastes salt.

Then Gibson tightens the hand in his hair, _pulls_ , and Tommy tastes fire instead. It spreads across his whole body and Tommy can't breathe.

"What-" Tommy begins as Gibson pulls back suddenly, but forgets the rest of the question when Gibson's mouth follows the edge of his jawline. He yanks at Tommy's shirt until one of his hands finds a way under it, thin fingers moving across his skin almost tenderly. A sudden gasp leaves Tommy's mouth and Gibson stills for a moment. Then his mouth presses against Tommy's ear, his breath hot and damp on Tommy's skin. Tommy shudders.

Gibson moves even closer then, pressing their whole bodies together. He lets out a choked sound, something that reverberates through Tommy's whole body and settles deep inside him. Tommy's hands curl around Gibson's neck as he pulls him into another kiss.

Tommy's uniform is rough, stiff with dirt and salt. It's scratching his skin as they move against each other, a reminder of things that were. Things that will be. Tommy wants to tear it off his body, off Gibson's, throw it away, set it on fire, watch it disappear in smoke. He groans and pushes Gibson's shirt up as far as he can, with much more force than is necessary and digs his fingers into the expanse of warm skin.

Gibson's hands settle on Tommy's hips, pushing them flush against his. Tommy can't help the sound that escapes his mouth, the way his knees almost buckle underneath him. But Gibson is there, holding him, not letting go even as his own legs tremble.

When Gibson's lips find his own again, Tommy feels the tension under his skin growing, tightening, until it snaps and sends Tommy falling over the edge. Gibson breaks the kiss then, and lets out a broken moan that makes Tommy shiver, his hips moving once more before stopping completely.

Their breaths mix together as they stand there, slowly becoming aware of their surroundings again.

Tommy opens his eyes, even though he doesn't remember closing them. He blinks—once, twice—and eases the grip on Gibson's waist, not pulling away. He lets his head fall back, against the brick wall that seems too cold all of a sudden. Gibson's hand brushes against his side and Tommy releases a breath he didn't realise he was holding.

Gibson is looking at him with something unfamiliar in his eyes as he lifts one hand and traces Tommy's neck with his fingers. He stops for a split second, a single finger pressing against where his pulse is still far too quick. Tommy wants to kiss him again. He does.

They break away, eventually, just as Tommy's mind begins to clear up. Gibson takes a step back and Tommy feels  cold, colder than when the waves were rolling over him in the sea.

Somehow it all seems forever ago, even though it's only been hours since he had saved Gibson from dying. Since Gibson had saved _him_ from dying.

Gibson must see something on Tommy's face, because he closes the distance again, presses his lips to the corner of Tommy's mouth.

 _"On se reverra,"_ he says, his words only a breath against Tommy's face and something in Tommy's chest  clenches painfully because he doesn't understand.

Tommy wants to ask, to tell him everything, to keep Gibson close to him. Instead, he lifts a hand to trace Gibson's face, a single touch before they part again. There's something dark in Gibson's eyes, something that has nothing to do with the shadows around them. It's there one moment and gone the next, before Tommy can even really see it.

Gibson watches him for a long moment and then, without another word, he walks away.

The darkness stays completely silent for a while, calm and impartial, but the thrum of soldiers still marching soon fills the space again, pushing Tommy's thoughts to the back of his mind.

Tommy swallows and takes a shaky step. He stumbles on the blanket.

He doesn't remember dropping it.

-

He drifts through the stream of people. Someone presses a scalding hot cup of tea into his hands and Tommy grips it. He spills some of it over his hands, but he barely notices it.

He finds Alex on the train, glaring at everyone that passes by.

Alex looks up at him, eyes narrowing slightly. He nods toward the empty seat across him. Tommy sits down, setting the tea in front of himself and the blanket on his thighs.

The train moves and all of a sudden, Tommy feels exhausted.

"I take it the frog is gone?" Alex asks, voice rough but steady, sure.

Tommy nods. He doesn't want to say it out loud and Alex stays quiet. When Tommy looks up, Alex is looking out of the window, even though the only thing there is their own reflection.

Tommy drinks the tea, swallows until he can't breathe. It burns his tongue and washes away the taste of Gibson's _(not Gibson's)_ mouth on his, replaces it with a thick sugary film.

Tommy folds the blanket underneath his head and sleeps.

 

 

 

 


End file.
